


Under the Weather

by Proctor



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: :), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Fun. Filth. And Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rimming, Semi-established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proctor/pseuds/Proctor
Summary: Jaskier is ill, and Geralt finds himself (somewhat reluctantly) looking after him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 69
Kudos: 411
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Under the Weather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arlene56](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlene56/gifts).



> I've had fun writing my Witcher fics so far, though this one has been gathering electric dust on my laptop for some time, so thank you to Arlene56 for encouraging me to finish it. :)
> 
> Jaskier has the flu in this, though I assure you, it was completely incidental, also, it's just a regular old flu. :)
> 
> Being British, I may have left some British words and phrases in here, so apologies to my cousins across the pond for anything unfamiliar.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it! :D

Jaskier felt dreadful. It was his third day of the flu yet his symptoms appeared to have worsened significantly since this morning. Perhaps his condition was escalating, or perhaps it just seemed that way because the lively bustle of the last village had provided a welcome distraction from his suffering, something which the quiet surrounding forest and Roach’s spirited but nauseatingly repetitive trot only drew more attention to.

Still, at least he didn’t have to walk.

He snuffled, took his hands from Geralt’s waist and gathered the thick black cloak tighter around his shoulders, catching the familiar scent of leather and earth that rose from its heavy fibres. Such an offering –unprompted, no less– was a generous gesture indeed, and one that may have suggested tender concern for his well-being were it not for the fact that it had been whipped off with a grunt and shoved wordlessly into his lap.

He quickly pulled his fist to his mouth as another loud cough rattled through his throat.

“Stop that. You’re bothering Roach,” Geralt grouched.

Jaskier scrunched his face up, a little befuddled. “Really? She seems perfectly fine to me. _”_

“She’s not. Look at her. She’s terrified.”

The tone was more pettish than it was hostile, but the words themselvesseemed a bit dramatic, particularly from Geralt, and especially when Roach’s merry bounce implied the contrary. Something was amiss. He narrowed his puffy eyes suspiciously. “Wait a– It’s _you_ that it’s bothering, isn’t it?”

“.…”

“.…”

“Yes.”

“Ohhhh, _I_ see. Yes, blame the _horse_ , why don’t you,” he proclaimed, but despite his gusto, his voice sounded congested and dull like he was talking into a cup, and it considerably weakened the ferocity with which he attempted to address Geralt’s juvenile ploy. “Well, I most humbly apologise for inconveniencing you, Geralt. How terribly selfish of me to _decide_ to become ill like this. I’ll just go ahead and _make_ myself better, shall I?”

“If you could.” And Geralt knew he’d managed to say it with convincing seriousness when Jaskier sputtered in disbelief behind him.

“If I-?! Well of _course_ I can’t!” Jaskier squeaked in appal, before realising that ranting required more energy than he currently possessed, so breathed deeply and reluctantly settled for a quieter sulk instead. “Ahem. I can’t. And you ought to get used to it. With the way I’m feeling right now -which is positively shite, in case you’re wondering- I imagine that it will be quite some time before I’m fighting fit again.”

“What do you mean ‘again’? You’re not fit and you don’t fight.”

“Of course I’m fit,” he huffed, mildly insulted by the suggestion, “I may not have your _ogreish_ muscles, but I’m a wandering bard, Geralt. I could mill flour with these thighs.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “Colourful thought.”

The bard wasn’t lying though. He had felt the grip of those deceptively strong limbs around his waist often enough now to know that they could wind a man.

“Urrgh. I feel so horrid,” Jaskier resumed with a groan. “I think I’m dying. I can’t travel like this. We’ll have to spend a few more days in town than we intended.”

While Geralt wasn’t keen on the idea, he was less concerned with the prospect of extending their visit and more with the casual expectation of it. Jaskier had some gall to be changing their plans without consulting him, especially when the cost of additional board wasn’t coming out of _his_ pocket.

“On what coin? There’s nothing for me to kill here,” he said. “Besidesyou.”

Used to Geralt’s flippant death threats, the comment barely registered with Jaskier, though the point he made regarding their finances was a valid one. “We’ll simply have to arrange more modest accommodation. We can share a bed. We’ve done it plenty of times before,” he offered, noting with irony that they most often shared a bed when they _weren’t_ being intimate and rarely when they _were;_ Geralt directing him or, if stubbornness proved an obstacle, carrying him across the room after sex and promptly depositing him on the second bed, sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with a tired grumble.

He coughed again, and while he tried to muffle the sound behind closed lips, it only made him splutter when he could no longer contain the pressure, spit dribbling down his chin and his nose running too, causing him to sniff it back up.

“I’m not sharing a bed with you like that.”

Jaskier wiped his lips with his hand then, remembering how expensive his britches were, subtly dried it on Geralt’s cloak while his back was turned. “I thought witchers didn’t get flues.”

“They don’t. But snot is snot.”

“ _Snot is snot_ … Ah-ha!” he declared triumphantly. “So you acknowledge that I _am_ unwell.” He was starting to think that Geralt didn’t believe him, it would certainly explain his lack of sympathy.

“I never said that I didn’t.”

“Oh,” he frowned, “so you just don’tcare then _._ ”

Geralt smiled at that. “You make it sound so _unfriendly_ , Jaskier.”

He had expected the tease to result in a scathing remark or a tiny huff at least, but when he received none, looked over his shoulder, briefly assessing him. He did appear rather sickly. His skin was pale and waxy; his normally vibrant blue eyes were glassy and red-rimmed; and the tip of his nose was wet and ruddy pink. He was fairly sure that Jaskier’s self-pitying sniffles, dismal bewailing, and hyperbolic declarations regarding his own imminent demise were superfluous at best, but it had been so long since he himself had suffered the illnesses of man that he couldn’t be certain.

He sighed.

“There’s an apothecary in town. We’ll leave our things at the inn then I’ll take you there.”

It was the best thing Jaskier had heard all day. “Oh, thank _goodness!_ _See. Y_ ou _are_ a jewel beneath that exterior of…” he waved his hand in Geralt’s general direction, “…insensitive…brick…”

“Insensitive brick,” Geralt echoed under his breath, used to Jaskier’s incongruous metaphors and poor tact yet despairing of them even so.

Jaskier pulled his hood up. Though the sky was barely visible between the tall trees, what little light filtered through was a stormy grey, and he desperately hoped that they would make it to town before the rain came. “Geralt? Can I keep your cloak a while longer? I think it’s about to bucket down.”

Geralt glanced at him then faced forward again, smirking. “You can. But it makes you look like a grieving widow.”

Jaskier looked from side to side, paused, then quickly took the hood back down.

*

To Jaskier’s satisfaction, Geralt was true to his word, taking him first to the inn to free them of their belongings –all apart from his lute which he adamantly refused to leave in their particularly cheap and somewhat dubious abode– then accompanying him through the muddy streets to the apothecary.

The bell on the shop door tinkled upon their arrival, and the smell of damp oak and herbs hit them as they entered.

Jaskier had a look around, curiously eyeing up the rows of brightly coloured glass on the dusty wooden shelves.

“Touch nothing,” Geralt warned as he strode past him.

Jaskier nodded, waiting exactly ten seconds before bending down to pick up a jar of red liquid, peering at an odd shape at the bottom. He gave it a shake, but in doing so, knocked his lute case against the cabinet behind him, disturbing the bottles within. Distracted, he lost his grip on the jar, managing to catch it just before it fell to the ground, but when he replaced it, toppled a few others in quick succession, giving a ‘ _whoops-a-daisy_ ’ followed by an ‘ _oh, shit_.’

Geralt rolled his eyes in exasperation as he approached the wooden counter where a portly man with a red bushy beard stood with his arms folded, tutting at the calamity that surrounded, and was, Jaskier.

Upon hearing another clatter, the man bellowed across the room: “Oi, careful wif those! You break ‘em, you pay for ‘em!” He gave a final ‘tsk’ then turned to Geralt. “Is ‘e yours?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Should keep ‘im on a leash.”

 _“Geralt!”_ Jaskier called over. _“This one has a maggot in it. I don’t want maggots if that’s what you’re thinking of getting me. Bit funny about them. Think it’s the way they wriggle. This one’s seen better days mind you, but-”_

Geralt turned to the shopkeeper, ignoring Jaskier’s distant babbling. “I’ve yet to find one tight enough for the desired effect,” he replied.

“I ‘ear you. Same wif the wife,” the man grinned, picking up a bottle, breathing on it and wiping it with a cloth. “So. Take it you’re tha’ witcher everyone’s talkin’ about.”

News of his presence always travelled fast, though the shopkeeper didn’t seem to have much interest in the answer despite his question - clearly not the type to get excited about gossip. Geralt liked him already.

“That would be me.”

 _“Something with honey in it, Geralt! HONEY!”_ Jaskier shouted.

“An’ what’s ‘e then? Some sort of musician?”

“No. He’s an idiot. Do you have a cure?”

“I find a punch in the face ‘elps.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Jaskier set down the jars and leaned back. “I can _hear_ you, you know.”

“He’s an idiot with good hearing apparently…” Geralt smiled, “…when the subject is _him_ at least,” he added, giving Jaskier a pointed look, then returning his attention to the shopkeeper. “No. I need a flu remedy. My companion is… unwell.”

“I can give you somefink for the throat, but my advice? Bed rest and chicken soup.”

“And where might a man find chicken soup around here?”

“Not a much of an ‘ome cook then, I take it?” the man asked as he rummaged through some bottles on the shelf behind, picking out an amber one and placing it on the counter.

“Oh? What gave it away?”

“Just couldn’t picture you in an apron, mate.”

“I could,” Jaskier chimed in, peeking from behind a cabinet, then coughed in the resulting silence. “…What? I could.”

The man brought a curled hand to the side of his mouth, lowering his voice. “You sure it’s the flu an’ not delirium?”

“He’s always like that. You get used to it.”

“Right. The tavern then. Though I’ll warn you…I don’t fink it’s all chicken,” he said, then tapped the side of his nose and gave a emphatic nod.

“We’ll take our chances.”

Geralt lifted the bottle and left a handful of coins on the counter then walked over to Jaskier and took a purple jar from his hands, carefully placing it on the shelf before patting his shoulder and leading him to the door with a hand on the small of his back.

“Come Jaskier, we’re going to get you some suspicious meat.”

“My favourite kind,” Jaskier muttered, justifiably sceptical.

*

The food, it turned out (regardless of its contents), hadn’t been as bad as Jaskier expected, and the single ‘medicinal’ whiskey Geralt had ordered for him at the end of their meal still burned pleasantly in his throat as they arrived back at the inn.

Their board may have been in an undesirable part of town, the room notably depressing in its overall presentation and basic furnishings (a table with a basin on top, a small wooden clothes chest, and a stool), but the sacrifice allowed them a bed each, something which Jaskier knew Geralt appreciated, yet he himself would have been happier without, eager, in his miserable state, for a familiar body close to his own.

They had barely made it through the door when he noticed Geralt taking the whetstone from his pack, unsheathing his steel sword, and making his way to the rickety stool in the corner. The seat squeaked in protest as he sat down, but its cries were quickly drowned out by the abrasive scrape of stone on metal.

Jaskier stood there, perplexed. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“It _looks_ like you’re doing something that isn’t part _of_ , associated _with_ , or relevant _to_ , taking care of me.”

Geralt huffed in amusement, always struck by the unabashed pomposity of remarks like that. There was little doubt that others _thought_ such self-centred things, but only Jaskier would be shameless enough to actually voice them.

“I’ve done all I can, and it’s more than I intended,” he said. “You have medicine, food in your belly, and a place to sleep. Everything you need. What more could you ask for?”

Jaskier pouted. “A hug?”

“Get some rest, Jaskier,” he smiled.

In fairness, Jaskier knew it _was_ everything he needed, on a practical level at least, and despite his failure to show it, he appreciated that an effort had been made to secure each of these life-extending essentials; to be ignored completely would have been truly cold, but for Geralt, it wasn’t outwith the realms of possibility. Even so, it was a thorough coddling that he was after, and it appeared as though he wasn’t going to get it.

“Right. Well. In that case, if you need me, I’ll just be over here,” he announced, placing his hands on his hips.

“Mm.”

“…Dying. Quietly,” he continued. “Alone and unloved.”

Geralt inclined his head to the side and gave him his ‘ _don’t be so over-dramatic, Jaskier_ ’ look, and Jaskier responded by tossing his head back and offering his ‘ _I shall be over-dramatic if I so wish and you will not stop me on this day_ ’ look - a common unspoken exchange between them, and one that usually signified the end of a conversation with unyielding stubbornness on both sides.

Jaskier sniffed and leaned down to peer out of the small single window, a luxury in inns such as this. It was still daylight, but the sky was darker than before, a dull slate colour, and rain could be heard gently pattering on the roof. Sleep ought to come easily under such conditions and he didn’t have the motivation for much else so began to undress for bed.

Geralt kept his head down as he resumed his work on the blade, though observed out of the corner of his eye, glancing up every now and again when he could do so undetected.

He watched Jaskier’s dexterous fingers pluck at the hooked fastenings of his puff-sleeved navy doublet, opening it up and stripping it off to reveal the loose, frilly white shirt beneath. The ivory buttons at the top were then carefully undone, and Jaskier let out a soft sigh as he slipped his hand inside the collar, running his palm through his chest hair, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. Presumably, it was to offer cool relief on his feverish skin –after all, Geralt could see the sheen of sweat on him from here– however, there was a subtle sensuality to it that he found quite tantalising.

Jaskier didn’t seem to notice though, nor did he remove the garment, but instead withdrew his hand and reached down to unfasten his britches, chin tucked and eyes on his crotch as he worked each button out. A glimpse of dark pubic hair caught Geralt’s attention when the shirt was freed, and it was followed by the exposure of creamy thighs as Jaskier pushed his trousers and braies down to his knees…

…However, any inherent eroticism in the act was swiftly snuffed out when he then attempted to remove his britches while trying to stop his nose from running, yanking them off an ankle one handed. He lost his footing, stumbled, then hopped slightly with an ‘ _Ah!_ _Fuck_ ’, his limp, pretty cock flapping around wildly below his shirt.

Geralt tried not to smile, amused not only by the humorous display, but by the fact that as clumsy and disastrous as Jaskier was, he still managed to find him… remarkably fuckable. Especially now, standing there in only his shirt; the intricate lace cuffs skimming his knuckles; the hem brushing his thighs; and, when he bent down to retrieve the handkerchief from his pocket, the cheeks of his pert white arse peeking out rudely beneath the fabric, his balls lightly jiggling between his legs.

Due to Jaskier’s current ailment however, and rightfully so, there would be no such activity tonight. Geralt didn’t mind though, they didn’t lie together all the time, and he was happy enough to watch him from a distance. That said, he averted his gaze the moment Jaskier lifted his head. Ogling a sick man wasn’t good form, and the verbal onslaught he would be met with if he was caught would no doubt be more than his ears could take. Best to leave it.

*

Wrestling with his clothes and losing had left Jaskier exhausted, and his shoulders sagged as he padded barefoot across the room, throwing himself onto the bed on his front, opting for the one closest to where Geralt sat just because he liked the proximity.

Conscious of the pain in his joints, he rolled onto his back to see if the change in position made any difference, but finding it didn’t, flipped over onto his tummy once more and turned his head on the pillow, his neck stiff and sore.

“Urrgh. I’m so achy. I need my neck and shoulders massaged. Will you do it, Geralt?”

Geralt let out an abrupt and highly dismissive chortle, causing Jaskier’s eyes to widen and his mouth to gape in both alarm and offence.

“W-wh-a!? It was a genuine _question!_ ” he shrilled.

“I know," Geralt replied, "It was a genuine laugh.”

“You’re not a very good caregiver, _are you_? I patch up your wounds, scrub all sorts of…matter from your skin, and regularly rub ointment into your intimate regions, and you can’t even give my neck a squeeze?”

“Oh, I’ll give your neck a squeeze all right,” Geralt suggested with a fiendish curl of his lips and a cocky lift of his eyebrows.

Jaskier scowled at him, and it wasn’t from the empty threat of a throttling, but rather from Geralt’s blithe attitude in general; his circumstances trivialised, his misery reduced to nothing more than a source of amusement. He could have cursed his own naivety for expecting any heartfelt commiseration from the man. _“_ Fine. Be mean. Make your droll remarks. I shan’t be awake to listen to them,” he said curtly, lifting his chin in the air.

Geralt watched Jaskier shuffle away from him on the sheets (a mere inch or less; not enough to achieve anything useful, but enough to prove a point) before sharply planting his face into the pillow, the air exiting it with a dull puff.

He had only been teasing, and did so, at least in part, because riling Jaskier was one of his few pleasures in life… though perhaps he had been a little relentless today. He did feel sorry for him really, and despite his earlier comments, fully intended to stay in town as long as was necessary for his recovery, taking odd jobs for extra coin to support them if need be. Jaskier, however, was not like him, he wasn’t content with mere survival, he wanted sympathy, he wanted affection, both of which were difficult for Geralt to express at the best of times, and proved an even greater challenge when the recipient was so haughty and demanding.

But Jaskier looked so pitiful, lying there sniffling into the pillow, now clutching it in his arms as if it were the only thing in the world that could offer comfort, which, on account of his own refusal to provide an alternative, it was. And Jaskier was right, he _did_ take care of him, and if their roles were reversed, he would be fussing over him right now, tending to his every need, catering to his every whim.

He owed him an apology, but having so visibly fallen out of favour, Jaskier would be moved by no less than a grovelling one. Geralt didn’t make grovelling apologies, not just because he didn’t like them, but because he had no idea how to give them.

Even so, he would have to make amends somehow.

He placed the sword on the floor and pulled off his boots then rose from the stool, removing his jerkin and rolling up his black shirt sleeves.

*

Above the sound of the rain, Jaskier heard the creak of the floorboards then felt a presence lingering at his bedside. At first he was going to ignore it, purely out of spite, but curiosity got the better of him and he chanced a glance.

Geralt stood over him with a most peculiar expression on his face. His yellow eyes were gentle, yet his gaze wavered uncomfortably; he wore a smile, yet it was tight-lipped; and his arms were rigid at his sides as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

Geralt stared at him for several seconds before opening his mouth, and with a voice that was deep and soft and unusually awkward, said:

“Hello.”

With a single word, the contempt Jaskier had felt for him not five minutes ago began to melt away, and he found himself, of all things, suppressing a smile. _This was an apology_. And he knew that they did not come easily to his witcher.

“Hello,” he replied as indifferently as he could, not quite ready to welcome him back with open arms just yet, but aware that any remaining resolve would no doubt crumble under the weight of this rare display of timid charm.

“How are you feeling?”

“Horrible.”

“Mm.”

Geralt crouched down on the floor beside him so that they were level, draped his hands between his bent knees, and gradually raised his head. “It…occurred to me…” he began slowly, weighing each syllable with the utmost care, “…that as you are…unwell – pained in particular,” he added with a small tilt of his head, “…you might benefit…” then paused,“…from a massage.”

Jaskier couldn’t hold the smile back any longer. Not only was this blatant and uncharacteristic struggle achingly sweet, but the way Geralt framed the suggestion as if it were his own was utterly adorable.

“Came up with that yourself, did you?” he asked, reaching out and giving him a light prod on the arm.

“I was, shall we say…inspired,” Geralt replied, almost shyly.

“I see.”

Geralt sat for a few moments longer before he spoke again. “Are you…interested?”

Jaskier knew what he really meant though. What he was asking was: ‘ _Do you forgive me?_ ’ and Jaskier did, it was a silly argument anyway and he could never stay angry for long. Geralt had also risked his pride to make peace with him, silly, sweet lump that he was, and he felt almost ashamed that he had doubted his witcher’s care. “I am,” he said softly, “very much so,” and tucked Geralt’s silver hair behind his ear, neatly arranging the tips against his black shirt, and watching the stiffness in his shoulders subside with a outward breath that may or may not have been relief.

“In fact,” he added, perking up,“I’mrather eager to receive your services.”

Geralt wasn’t sure about his ‘services’, he never gave massages, but it was of little consequence; they were on speaking terms now, which is what he had hoped for, he could persevere with the rest.

“Hm. I wouldn’t expect much,” he said, standing up. “I don’t usually do this.”

“You’ve _had_ plenty though I’m sure. By myself in particular.”

“Mm.”

“Then just do to me what you like done to you,” Jaskier suggested, and saw Geralt give a thoughtful look then a nod.

He felt the dip of the mattress, and it was closely followed by the sensation of cool leather against his bare thighs as Geralt straddled them, the weight and splay of muscular legs atop his own causing his cock to twitch pleasantly against the sheets in learned response. Large familiar hands swept over the shirt on his back then rested on his shoulders, and he was readying himself for a truly euphoric experience… when Geralt’s thumbs suddenly dug deep and sharp into his flesh.

“ _Ouch!_ Bloody hell, Geralt!” he cried out, “You’re supposed to be giving me a massage, not trying to extort a confession!”

“It’s what I like.”

 _Well, he_ ** _ **did**_** _ask._ “Goodness. You’re a lot hardier than me then.”

“A notion I’ve never questioned.”

Geralt then gave his hair a vigorous but friendly ruffle, an afterthought perhaps, but clearly an attempt to show that he was only jesting.

“All right, you. That’s enough of that,” he chided lightly, “Just…be gentle with me.”

“Gentle,” Geralt repeated, as if in self-instruction.

The hands returned, but this time kneaded more carefully into his shoulders.

“Mmm-mm. That’s good,” he hummed, and could feel himself starting to relax, sinking into the bed and closing his eyes under Geralt’s soothing touch.

After a minute or so, roughened fingertips, warmed by the heat and friction of his linen shirt then slid up his neck and curled under his jaw, stroking him behind the ears and gently tugging on the lobes. Jaskier smiled to himself. It was a technique that he recognised, having made it up just for his witcher after discovering how sensitive an area it was for him, and the fact that Geralt had remembered, and was trying to imitate it, suggested that it had made more of an impression on him than he had thought.

Geralt moved on, rubbing his shoulder blades until the heel of one palm located a tight knot of muscle. He added a little more pressure, and used a slow, focused swirling motion as he worked the tension from it.

“Ughhh, yes…” Jaskier groaned loudly into the pillow, “…right there, Geralt, _Gods_ , right there…”

The long, muffled moan, the sound of his own name, and the words themselves, known to him in a far less innocent context, caused an unexpected stir in Geralt’s britches. He rose slightly on his knees to avoid Jaskier feeling the bulge of his half-hard cock against him, but continued to rub the same spot despite it, enjoying the decadent vocal reactions too much to be deterred by an untimely erection.

“ _Mmm. Down a bit_ ,” Jaskier instructed, and Geralt found himself complying instantly, unused to being ordered around, but strangely willing to appease him.“ _Lower._ ” He massaged his lower back, circling his thumbs near the base of his spine. “ _Bit more._ ” Any further down and it would take him past the hem of his shirt and onto his partially exposed backside… though he imagined that was precisely the point, and who was he to argue, he quite liked the feeling himself. He ran his palms over the soft curves of Jaskier’s buttocks, hands slipping beneath the thin fabric, and pushed the supple flesh upwards, the cheeks giving a sweet wobble each time he let go. “ _Mmm. Inward a bit._ ” Repeating the movement, he drew his thumbs in, running them deep into his crease, and could feel the humidity radiating from his hot little hole. “ _Liiiitle bit more._ ”

“Is this your attempt at subtlety, Jaskier?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Jaskier turned his head to the side, smiling up at him with one visible pale-blue eye. “It is. Am I good at it?”

“Clearly not,” he replied, returning his smile with a small one of his own.

While his demeanour remained calm however, the confirmation that Jaskier was currently feeling desirous sent a pulse of arousal through Geralt, one that caused his cock to swell fully in preparation for sex…

…But when Jaskier then gave a deafening hacking cough (followed by a few shorter ones most closely akin to the clucks of a chicken), he shook his head in amusement – the overeager bard was clearly in no state for it. “Of all the times to want to be fucked.”

“And _who_ said I wanted to be fucked?” Jaskier cawed indignantly, looking him up and down as if the suggestion were outrageous and highly insulting.

Technically Jaskier hadn’t stated the particulars, though it was certainly the conclusion one would reach. Geralt suspected it was merely his presumption that had caused offence. “I see. I’ll just give your arsehole a pet and be on my way then, shall I?”

He was quickly met with a fierce glower, but it only lasted a few seconds before transforming into a wide, foolish grin. “No. I want to be fucked.”

“I know you do. I thought you were dying.”

Jaskier gave a weary sigh. “Alas. You speak true, my friend,” he lamented with theatrical tragedy, limply waving his hand in the air, “yet it is the way in which I wish to take my leave of this cruel mortal coil.”

“That’s how you want to go, is it? With a cock in you?”

The dramatic tone was abandoned and Jaskier replied with a small shrug. “Might as well, eh?”

“Not the most honourable send off.”

“Well, I was never going to die on a battlefield, was I? It was either this or getting drunk on cherry wine and falling out a window.”

“Difficult choice.”

Jaskier reached back to stroke Geralt’s knee. “Not difficult at all." Joking aside, he considered that it might indeed make for a rather nice send off; for his last earthly experience to be wrapped in his witcher’s arms, stuffed full of his cock. “That is, of course, if my gracious white wolf is willing to grant me this final request,” he added coyly, and expected the answer to be keen and immediate, it was what they had been dancing around after all, but Geralt wrinkled his brow as if carefully weighing his options. “ _Oh._ Well don’t get _too_ excited about it.”

Geralt had just done it for effect though, and he was very pleased with the result.

“Oil or spit?” he grinned.

Jaskier was far happier with that answer, and not put off in the slightest by its crudeness, but it was the flash of white teeth that held his attention, a rare sight that never failed to make his heart flutter.

“Oil. I’m feeling indulgent,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but unable to keep his eyes from Geralt’s plump, stretched lips and the handsome creases that framed them.

Geralt lifted himself off the bed and moved to procure some oil, but before he could take a step, a hand reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Can I… have a kiss?” Jaskier asked a little sheepishly.

Geralt reached out and gently brushed the fever-damp chestnut fringe from his eye, smiling at him warmly, thumbing at his cheekbone, before replying: “No.”

“Oh, pleeease,” Jaskier pouted, but followed it with a mucus-filled snort.

Geralt chuckled softly. They rarely kissed, and never outwith sex, those were the rules – they weren’t courting after all. But even knowing this, Jaskier was such an opportunist, and was no doubt using his weakened state as an excuse for special treatment. You had to admire his resourcefulness though. _Perhaps just this once._

He picked up Jaskier’s handkerchief and tutted. “Blow your nose then.”

Jaskier lit up. In truth, he had not expected his request to be met, but his boldness (at least on this occasion) had clearly paid off. He shifted his weight onto one elbow and lifted his head, about to reach for the handkerchief, but just as he did so, Geralt pressed the cotton on either side of his nostrils, encouraging him to blow. Another man might have felt his pride compromised by being assisted with such a thing, but Jaskier considered it a lovely gesture and blew heartily.

Geralt gave his nose a few squeezes to coax the worst from him, and when he was done, wiped it along with his upper lip until he was clean then hung the rag over the headboard and bent down by the bed so that they were face to face. He made no move on him though, and they both simply looked at each other in silence, eyes roving over one another’s features.

Jaskier slowly leaned forward, knowing that he was being observed, but glancing up, found that the steady gaze upon him possessed more anticipation than wariness. He stopped just shy of Geralt’s mouth and tilted his head so that their noses lightly brushed. Closing the distance between them, he gently pressed their lips together and watched as Geralt’s eyes fluttered shut.

Geralt kept still at first, taking pleasure in the sensation of small, delicate lips against his own, but as Jaskier started to kiss his closed mouth in a series of slow, amorous puckers, he hesitantly began pursing his lips to meet each one, quiet little sucks and smacks sounding between them.

It took only a few moments for a thumb to rest in the dimple of his chin, urging him open, and he gave in without a fight, feeling the brief swipe of a tongue before it slipped inside him, tasting faintly of whiskey and medicine. He let Jaskier tentatively explore him, nudging and licking, and gradually found himself nudging and licking back, each of them growing more confident until the kiss was deep and their tongues slowly swirled together, hot and wet.

Despite its initial awkwardness, it was somehow the most satisfying kiss that Jaskier had ever had, and, unlike the desperate, teeth-clashing, tongue-plunging ones when they fucked, this was beautifully tender… so it was with a heavy heart that he finally withdrew, doing so before Geralt had a chance to, but joining their lips in a few smaller pecks as he retreated in order to ease the loss.

“That was nice,” he whispered.

Geralt gradually opened his eyes, blinking dazedly at him with his lips still lightly pursed… then quickly snapped his mouth shut and gave a tiny unintelligible grunt.

“Oh, come on! It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

 _No, it wasn’t bad,_ Geralt thought, _in fact, it felt very good, but he couldn’t admit to that._

“Don’t know _what_ I’ve picked up from you,” he said instead, and gave Jaskier’s bottom a playful slap. Jaskier squeaked and tried to whack his arm in return, but Geralt was quicker, catching his wrist and smirking as he watched him attempt to free himself but fail, managing only to point a reprimanding finger.

“BadGeralt. _Naughty_ Geralt.”

Geralt smiled and released him then stood, giving a final muss of his hair before leaving in search of oil.

Jaskier flopped back onto his tummy, resting his chin on the pillow and closing his eyes. He sighed happily to himself, listening to the soothing sound of the rain above the faint clinking of glass while Geralt rummaged about in the background.

Geralt returned with a bottle of oil and sat on the edge of the bed, drizzling some onto his fingers and waiting for Jaskier to turn onto his back or get on his hands and knees. But he didn’t, just lay there with his eyes shut, body slack and idle. He gave his calf a gentle shake, and Jaskier made a pleased little noise… but refused to move. Geralt frowned.

“Do you intend to put any effort into this or are you just going to lie there like a dead animal?” he complained.

“Mmmm. Dead animal.”

“Thisought to be sensual then,” he remarked dryly.

It had Jaskier grinning. “Come on. I’ll make it easy for you.” Sluggishly, he dragged one foot outward then the other, splaying his legs shamelessly wide and loose before reaching back and fumbling for his hole, just to make sure it was accessible, then letting his arm drop like a dead weight by his side.

Geralt found himself amused by the immodesty of it all. “... _Attractiiive,_ ” he drawled sarcastically.

Jaskier sniggered into the pillow. “I know.”

In spite of his gentle mockery however, Geralt felt his cock throb as he caught a glimpse of the dusky pink skin peeking from between the pale globes of Jaskier’s backside, his eyes following it inwards to where the tender flesh sucked into the tiny pinprick of his entrance.

He climbed up onto the bed and sat comfortably in the spread of Jaskier’s legs, taking a few moments to admire the view. Perhaps it was due to Jaskier’s pride in his own so-called ‘gracefulness and poise’, but there was something a little funny yet unexpectedly alluring in the way he was inelegantly sprawled on the sheets, lazily offering up his hole.

Reaching out, he placed a thumb on his lower back, and dipped an oiled finger between his cheeks, venturing downward until he felt the shallow dip of his opening. The quick intake of breath beneath him could scarcely be heard, but he saw it in the slight jump of Jaskier’s shoulders. Pleased with the response to such a simple touch, he circled his finger around the rim, so lightly that he was barely making contact, but it was enough to make Jaskier shiver and twitch against him.

He then began running his finger up through his crease in a curling motion, brushing over his hole in a series of brief swipes, allowing him the sensation then taking it away again just to build the anticipation for the next. Normally, he preferred to watch Jaskier do this, but there was a certain satisfaction in controlling the pleasure himself, and it seemed a waste not to tease him a bit.

Jaskier soon started wriggling and mithering about it though.

“Stop squirming, Jaskier,” he complained, only half-serious, indeed finding his movements unhelpful, yet secretly gratified by seeing him grow increasingly impatient.

Jaskier quickly calmed down though, so he rewarded him by offering a surer and more consistent rub. Judging from his quiet moans, it seemed to placate him, at least for a while, but when he began pressing his fingertip against him, almost dipping it in him yet going no further, Jaskier resumed his restless behaviour.

“Oh, come on, Geralt. Please. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Just finger me.”

Geralt chuckled in surprise. He didn’t know what he had expected him to say, but somehow imagined it would be a little more eloquent - he had never even heard a whore speak so plainly.

“What?” Jaskier queried, turning his head.

Geralt wasn’t going to tell him that he was more wanton than a prostitute though, it might hurt his feelings. “You’re very needy today,” he said instead, it was a fair observation.

“Mm-hm,” Jaskier nodded briskly in agreement then shoved his face in the pillow, and pushed his bottom into his hand.

 _Well, at least he was honest._ Geralt placed his fingertip against the ring of muscle and pushed until it gave into his oily nudge, slipping in, all the way to his knuckles, a soft outward breath sounding below him.

It was peculiar, and perhaps only his imagination, but Jaskier’s insides felt scorching hot, moreso than usual - maybe it was his fever. He kept his finger still and looked up at the ceiling, testing his temperature.

“Whath the matther?” came Jaskier’s muffled voice from the pillow.

“You’re very… warm.”

“Mmm. I’ll heep your hoth hoethy then, won’th I?”

“What?”

Jaskier shifted on the pillow and smiled. “I’ll keep your cock cosy then, won’t I?”

Geralt’s prick gave a tiny jolt at the idea. He had said it more out of concern than anything else, but the thought of being sheathed in all that heat, fever or no, was an inviting one…

He began to slowly slide his finger in and out of him, turning it, and slicking his walls up nicely. Feeling little resistance, he gradually added a second. The slight stretch, predictably, caused a quiet groan. It was nothing Jaskier wasn’t used to and still paled in comparison to his cock, but even so, he placed a hand on his thigh to let him know that he hadn’t meant any harm, and felt Jaskier’s fingertips lightly touching his knee, telling him it was all right.

He spread his fingers a little wider, curling and scissoring to the sound of heavy breaths. When satisfied, he gently withdrew them; yet for all his work, Jaskier’s entrance immediately closed up into a tight curl again in the wake of his leave as if untouched, the glistening oil around it offering the only evidence that he had been there at all. They hadn’t fucked in a while, and it would still be a tight fit, but it would have to do. He reached down to his own britches, but was stilled by a voice.

“Will you _kiss_ me there as well?” Jaskier asked, batting his eyelashes in faux innocence as he reached back with one hand and held his cheeks further apart, his middle and index finger framing his hole.

Geralt tilted his head with a thin, unamused press of his lips.

It wasn’t the first time Jaskier had alluded to this particular act, in fact, he had been making cheeky remarks about it with increasing regularity. Geralt had declined in the first instance because he was unsure of the process, and the last thing he needed was Jaskier ordering him around his arse, but when the cheap innuendo persisted, often accompanied with an annoying wink or elbow, he began to ignore him purely on principle.

“I’ve never licked someone’s arsehole, and I don’t intend to start now,” he said, a little more tersely than he had intended, so finished by saying: “…No matter how pretty the arsehole.”

Jaskier grinned at the second part, yet was not insulted by the first. He had known Geralt long enough to (on occasion at least) possess the ability to read between the lines, and this time, suspected it was inexperience that made him reluctant rather than aversion. “It’s not difficult. In fact, it’s not _that_ dissimilar to pleasuring a woman with your mouth.”

“I don’t much do that either,” Geralt admitted.

“Well _really_ , Geralt. That’s just impolite.”

“I usually pay by the hour. It’s not how I want to spend my money.”

“I _see_. Priorities.”

“I do have them.”

Jaskier nodded quietly for a moment. “And yet…you have just prepared me with a _most_ gentle fingering. Was that a… ‘priority?’”

Geralt crossed his arms and gave a ‘hmph’. “No. It was a treat.”

“Oh-ho! Have I been a good boy?”

“Easy now, Jaskier,” Geralt warned, unwilling to indulge that kind of talk. “And no. You haven’t. Not particularly,” he added, before lowering his voice, “but then… neither have I.”

“ _Well,_ ” Jaskier chirped, patting Geralt’s leg, “now is your chance to make it up to me.”

The reluctance on Geralt’s face didn’t lessen however, and Jaskier quickly realised he was pressuring him. He didn’t want that, it wasn’t fair, especially with someone he cared about. He squeezed Geralt’s knee reassuringly instead and turned his look of disappointment into a good-natured smile. “Another time, perhaps,” he said quietly, a suggestion purposefully vague enough to require no commitment, and friendly enough to alleviate any awkwardness.

Geralt knew he was being let off the hook, and it was done so in a way that deliberately prevented him from feeling any guilt. Jaskier may often appear oblivious and tactless, but there were times when he possessed a deeper understanding than most, and chose to act with a sensitivity so subtle that it no doubt went unnoticed by everyone else. Everyone but him.

“Do you know, I think you’re a bit overdressed, Geralt,” Jaskier continued with a sniffle, facing the headboard, feeling Geralt shuffling back on the sheets, “Here’s me, wearing nothing but a smock and a smile, and there’s you, looking like you’re going to a– _ahhh!_ ” The words turned to a cry as he felt the heat of a warm, thick tongue slide up between the cheeks of his arse and slip wetly over his hole.

At first, he was too stunned to move and thought he might have imagined it, but it was followed by a second swipe, stubble rasping over his sensitive skin, drawing a gasp from him; then a third, eliciting another, but this time causing a moan to escape his lips.

He turned his head to see if the imagery in his mind matched the reality of it, and found the sight more breathtaking than he could have possibly imagined. Geralt wasn’t lying flat on the bed, but was curled over on his knees, calmly resting on his forearms, heavy-lidded eyes on his hole as his head slowly moved up and down with each long lick. He looked like an animal in repose, gently cleaning its mate, and Gods if there wasn’t something devastatingly arousing about it.

Geralt caught his eye, and nudged him firmly with his nose in a gesture that Jaskier interpreted as a bid to have him face forward again. He complied, and as soon a he did, felt Geralt reach under his thighs, cradling them in the bend of his elbows, then part his cheeks with his hands, pulling the skin around his entrance taut.

Geralt must have appreciated the broader canvas to work with, as he made full use of it, lapping all around his hole as well as over it, laving at it heartily and messily and from every angle with the flat of his tongue until Jaskier could feel warm spit dribbling down his balls. It tickled a little, and despite his moans, he choked out a laugh. He felt a brief smile against him before obscene slurping noises started to fill the air. Geralt’s lips had joined the fray, dragging up through the oil and sucking on his skin, enough to make his cock twitch beneath him. It was chaotic and clumsy, of that there was no doubt, but somehow utterly perfect.

Geralt gave him three more long, sloppy licks, and finally, in a surprising gesture, pressed the pucker of his lips to the pucker of his hole in a quick kiss.

“There. You have your arse-kiss,” Geralt announced, withdrawing his arms from under him and letting his legs drop carelessly to the bed.

Jaskier caught his breath then let out a long sigh. “And much more besides,” he replied as he blinked in awe, then looked up at Geralt who was sat on his knees, wiping oil and saliva from his chin with the back of his hand. “That, Geralt, was… lovely.”

“Hm. I expect you’re used to more skill than that.”

Jaskier felt himself blush, and cleared his throat nervously. “Ahem. Yes. Regarding that. Umm… While I have, on occasion, performed the act myself,” he started, then paused, looking away, “I’ve never actually… been in receipt of it.”

For a moment Geralt was confused, but he then began to shake his head with a gentle chuckle. Jaskier had mentioned it often enough, sometimes giving the odd unwanted detail, and yet had carefully avoided making any reference to how it actually _felt_ , and now he knew why.

“Well, it may surprise you to know, Geralt – and I never thought I’d say this,” Jaskier began confidently, but then gazed down at sheets, his voice growing quieter, “but… not all lovers are as generous as you.”

Geralt snorted in amusement. Jaskier had suggested all manner of sexual activities, and he had said no to at least half of them, and that was in addition to his refusal to engage in kisses and cuddles and other such sugary pastimes. It shouldn’t have surprised him that despite boasting a history of adoring bed partners, they were not nearly as eager or obliging as he made out. Part of him felt that Jaskier was probably deserving of it for his rakish promiscuity, but another part of him felt a little regretful that much of Jaskier’s sex with other people turned out to be as meaningless as his own.

“In any case,” Jaskier quickly resumed, giving a cough, “I do believe you promised me your cock. I’d like to see it now if I may.”

Geralt wasn’t going to argue with that, he had been hard and leaking since Jaskier had first suggested they fuck, and he was more than ready for it now.

He reached down to undo the top button of his britches, aware of Jaskier’s gaze. He looked up to see that he was straining his neck uncomfortably, too lazy or too tired to turn over. He pressed his lips together with a ‘hm’, trying to decide if he wanted to do anything about it or not.

“You want a better look?” he asked.

Jaskier was rather surprised by the offer, but quickly nodded, not wanting to pass up the opportunity.

He felt the weight shift from the bed as Geralt crawled off the mattress and stood on the floor beside him. He made no particular show of it, gave no sensual tease, but worked the buttons out a little slower than he normally would. When finished, he roughly shoved his britches half-way down his thighs, his cock springing free and hovering in front of him, the strength of his erection holding up the hem of his black shirt.

Jaskier may not have been in any state to perform oral sex, but his mouth watered all the same at the sight. He had imagined that Geralt’s hardness may have waned at some point, but there he was, fully erect, his large, rigid sex adorned with thick swollen veins, the tip shining deliciously.

“Mmm, Geralt. I _approve_ ,”

Geralt smirked. “Just as well. That’s what you're getting.”

Jaskier grinned at the promise of it, then glanced down when something caught his eye. Smears of precome had dampened the soft hairs on Geralt’s inner thighs, and there was a large grey, wet patch on his white braies where it had stained.

“My. You _have_ been busy.”

And Geralt, bless him, looked almost embarrassed.

“I won’t last long,” Geralt admitted, and the honesty was inspiring.

“Neither will I,” he confessed himself and watched a small smile curl at Geralt’s lips.

The remaining clothes were shed, and Geralt sat astride his thighs once more, urging his legs closer together with his knees. Jaskier heard the pop of the cork, and there were several quiet moments while Geralt prepared himself.

Geralt braced his weight with a hand on the mattress beside Jaskier’s waist, and with the other, held his cock and guided it to his opening. He slid the head up and down through the oil, stilling when it settled neatly into the depression of his hole then began to press in, a short ‘mm’ sounding behind his closed lips when it pushed past the rim, Jaskier’s muscles holding him in his heat despite the slipperiness.

Glancing up, he saw that Jaskier had his head turned to the side on the pillow, his eyebrows pulled together and his lips parted, but unlike the usual hisses and loud groans he made when he was first breached, the soft ‘ah’ he gave was quiet and blissfully serene.

Despite his relaxed state however, Jaskier could feel a whimper rising at the back of his throat as Geralt slowly fed his cock into him, filling him with each girthy inch until he was glutted with it. He would have been happy with Geralt no matter his size, but it was at times like this that he appreciated the overwhelming feeling of fullness that something that long and thick provided; it sated him like nothing else.

He felt Geralt’s hands grip his waist, the heels of his palms pressing down on either side of his spine, pushing his belly down into the mattress, bowing him so that his bottom rose, offering easier access. Geralt then began to move his hips, gently rocking into him, groaning every time he was fully sheathed, a sound in harmony with Jaskier’s own higher pitch.

Knowing how eager Geralt was, and how long he had waited while pleasuring him with his fingers and mouth, Jaskier had expected him to take him with speed and efficiency; his choice to steadily make love to him therefore, was unanticipated, and yet, was exactly what he needed. He soon found himself wanting more though, hands and lips all over him.

“I…I want…” he tried, but wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

“What would you like, Jaskier?" Geralt smiled, looking down at him, knowing it was only a matter of time before Jaskier would want to be lavished with affection. "Hm? Attention?"

He watched Jaskier's parted lips quirk up at the edge as he nodded against the pillow. “Yes. All of it… All your -uhn- attention.”

“So demanding,” he laughed softly.

He pushed Jaskier’s shirt up until it gathered around his neck then lay on top of him, pressing his chest flush to his back. The heat between them was stifling, but the contact of their skin proved as pleasurable for him as it presumably did for Jaskier. He slipped his arms under Jaskier’s and dipped his head, nuzzling him below the ear as he continued to roll his hips.

“Like that?” he whispered, and saw Jaskier’s arm lift from the bed and reach back, fingers tangling in his hair and pulling forcefully, dragging him down so his lips and nose were squashed into his neck.

“More like that."

Geralt smirked against his skin and pulled a hand from under him, grabbing his wrist and squeezing it tightly until Jaskier’s grip weakened under the threat of cut circulation, his arm falling back onto the bed. _He would oblige, but only because he chose to._ He ran his free hand up through Jaskier’s fringe and back through his hair, clutching it near the nape, and began pressing messy kisses into his neck, one for every full penetration of his cock, working his way up over his jaw but stopping at his lips.

“Anything…else?” he rumbled against his mouth.

Jaskier nudged his nose with his own then swiped his lips over Geralt’s, smiling through his quickening breaths. “Make me come.”

“Mm.”

Geralt started to slip his cock in and out of him with more pronounced thrusts, pivoting from the hip but scarcely moving otherwise. It caused a series of wet smacks between them, sweat and oil and skin, and Jaskier longed to see the way Geralt’s gorgeous arse was bouncing as he snapped into him.

As the pace increased, Jaskier could feel a long mane shaking against his shoulder and hot breaths on his cheek; hard nipples and sweat-damp chest hair rubbed along his back, and the cheeks of his bottom quivered, the nerves inside his passage alight with the stimulation of being ravaged by a big, enthusiastic cock. It made him groan.

Geralt saw Jaskier ferreting around, trying to slide his hand under himself to find his cock but unable to get anywhere near it with the weight that bore down on him. He hauled him up onto his hands and knees then spat in his palm and reached around, roughly tugging at his prick as he tried to maintain the speed of his thrusts.

“O-oh f-fuck,” Jaskier panted, his voice shaking from the juddering movements inside of him, “….I’m…I’m nearly there, Geralt.”

Geralt was too, and pulled on Jaskier’s cock with extra vigour, trying to make him come before he spilled himself.

It was enough for Jaskier, more than enough, and he let out a final cry as he came on the sheets below and on his stomach as his cock flapped up and down, Geralt’s fist milking each squirt from him until there was nothing but a dribble. He reached back to grasp at Geralt’s thigh and urge him to take whatever he needed to climax, but his fingertips could scarcely brush it. It didn’t matter though, Geralt didn’t seem to need the encouragement.

Five more thrusts was all it took before he heard a loud gutteral grunt above him then felt the flood of hot semen fill his belly in a spate of long, bountiful gushes.

*

They sat on their hands and knees panting for a moment before Geralt gave Jaskier’s shoulder a squeeze and a rough pat (a gesture Jaskier liked but was never sure if it meant ‘well done’, ‘thank you’, or ‘I’m well and truly fucked’) then pulled out and lay on his back, closing his eyes.

Jaskier joined him, shimmying to make room for himself, then suddenly froze, blinking in confusion and bringing his fingers up to his throat. “Geralt. Geralt,” he said, hitting Geralt’s chest with the back of his hand.

Geralt grumbled. “What is it?” he asked, lazily knocking the hand away but keeping his eyes shut; he wasn’t in the mood for drama so soon after sex, he wanted to bask in the afterglow.

“I feel… good.”

“Hm. Well, I’d like to think I put the effort in.”

“No, no. I mean, I feel… healthy. Right as rain. Fit as a fid-” Jaskier gasped then fell silent. “Geralt,” he repeated in a whisper, and Geralt gave a weary sigh, finally turning to him.

“What now, Jaskier?”

And Jaskier replied, in all seriousness: “I think… your seed has the power to heal the sick.”

Geralt stared at Jaskier for a good five seconds before abruptly hoisting him over his shoulder and carrying him over to the other bed, Jaskier flailing and blabbering.

“I mean it! Just think Geralt, we could sell it for a fortune. By the crate -after all, you produce enough of it. Imagine the profit!”

Geralt dropped him unceremoniously onto the mattress and smirked.

“It’s just adrenaline, Jaskier. Give it a while. You’ll be feeling miserable again in no time. Which is just as well, because I’m not pleasuring myself into a bottle.”

“You have no business acumen, Geralt, and no self-belief,” Jaskier continued as Geralt approached the small basin on the table and dipped a cloth in it. “I’m cured, by Gods, I’m cured-!” But it was followed by a loud cough, and Geralt sniggered.

“See?” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, and cleaning the mess from Jaskier’s tummy.

“Ah, well. We’ll just have to stick to our day jobs,” Jaskier sighed, “not to worry. I’ve still enjoyed myself,” then looked down to see Geralt washing him. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“Not bad for an ‘insensitive brick’,” Geralt offered with a cocked eyebrow.

“Only on the outside. You’re a big softy, really.”

“Hm.” Geralt had no other response to that, but he could feel an affectionate gaze on him, and he quite liked it. He folded the cloth in two and placed it on Jaskier’s forehead.

“Yuck, Geralt, that’s not very hygienic, it has… stuff on it.”

“It’s your 'stuff'. It shouldn’t bother you.”

Jaskier folded his arms and raised his chin. “Yes. But ‘spill is spill’.”

“ _Spill is spill_ …” Geralt repeated with a smile, and removed the cloth.

“–No. Wait. I’ll make do. I can’t afford to be picky.”

“I’ll remind you that you said that,” Geralt said, climbing on the bed, lying on his back and pulling the cover over them both.

It shocked Jaskier. _Surely Geralt wasn’t spending the night_. “Are you… staying?”

“Don’t get excited. It’s only so I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you survive the night. If you die, I’m selling your lute.”

Jaskier smiled warmly. “Get a good price for her, won’t you,” he said, playing along, but knowing that it was only an excuse.

“I’ll do my best.”

Jaskier lay his head on Geralt’s shoulder, snuggling close and closing his eyes…

…And tonight, Geralt let him.

*

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that!
> 
> I wanted Geralt to give Jaskier a massage because in my last fic 'Waves' he sarcastically offers one, so I thought it would serve him right if he ended up doing it in this. (My Witcher fics aren't listed as a series because they can all -there are only two others!- be read as standalones, but they are set in the same universe and chronologically, so Geralt is a bit more 'giving' in each.)
> 
> I prefer to write cheerful!Jaskier more than huffy!Jaskier, but it always gives Geralt the chance to get some good teasing in! XD Also, it was fun to write Geralt trying to apologise. XD
> 
> Oh, and I'd like three bottles of Witcher jizz please. ;D
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


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